


In Your Eyes

by Gemmiel



Series: Holding On [9]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Oral Sex, Slash, alcohol and sex, bj/hawkeye, blowjob, sex while drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3970456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BJ's been trying his best to not look into his best friend's eyes, to not repeat the mistake he made two weeks ago. But after a long day of surgery, the walls between them come tumbling down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Eyes

Things are back to normal.

Well, more or less. There's no real residual awkwardness between the two of them, much to B.J.'s relief. He and Hawkeye banter, joke, and laugh together, just as they've done ever since he came to Korea. The two of them work side by side to take care of the wounded, and then they relax together, sipping martinis in the Swamp, or wandering over to the mess tent to grab a coffee together. Things between them are perfectly normal.

Except... except...

B.J. knows that despite all his efforts to put things back on the friendship level, there's a certain tension underlying the easy banter. Not a bad sort of tension, not at all, but rather something that adds a certain spice to even the most ordinary conversation.

The tension is a sort of echo of what the two of them did together in the rain that night. Sometimes, when a quiet falls between them, he glances at Hawkeye, and in his blue, blue eyes he sees...

Well, he sees exactly what he knows is in his own eyes.

He tries to avoid silences for that reason, because seeing his own feelings reflected in Hawk's gaze scares him a little. Maybe Hawkeye feels the same way, because there's a hell of a lot of joking between the two of them. When they aren't talking, B.J.'s writing a letter to Peg, and avoiding Hawk's gaze.

He's written an awful lot of letters over the past two weeks. And not a single one of them truly describes what he's really experiencing, here in the drab grayness of Korea.

_Lost a kid to peritonitis. Found a rat under my cot, gnawing on my socks. Had something precariously close to sex with my tentmate._

Most of what he's gone through here is awful, but some of it is strangely wonderful. But he can't share any of it with Peg. He keeps it all to himself, because none of it is the sort of thing he can load onto his wife's fragile shoulders.

She couldn't possibly understand any of it. She couldn't possibly forgive him for what he's done.

Hell, he can't understand it, or forgive himself.

Still, she's his wife, and he has to write her something, so he keeps his letters as light and funny as he can. And he writes, and writes, and writes...

Because it's safer than looking into Hawkeye's eyes.

*****

Gin tastes like sex.

It's been two weeks since he and Hawkeye rolled around together in the rain, and yet every time he sips a martini, he tastes Hawkeye's lips, flavored with gin, and memories flood him. Memories of wet skin and mud and the scent of crushed grass and nearly unbearable pleasure...

But he can't think about that. He _can't._ He's a married man, a _happily_ married man, and he's supposed to be thinking about his wife, fantasizing about his wife, dreaming about his wife. He's not supposed to be obsessing over his best friend, or thinking constantly about Hawk's wide grin and cackling laugh and almost desperate reverence for life.

B.J. is doing his best to honor his wedding vows, to be the loyal, faithful husband he wants to be, and yet somehow all the letters to Peg he's writing (not to mention the ones that wind up as ashes in the stove) just aren't helping. He can't seem to stop thinking about Hawkeye, and their night together.

He's had a lot of martinis tonight. He's entitled, damn it. It's been a hell of a day, fourteen straight hours of surgery punctuated with shells dropping way too close for comfort, the operating room rattling around them as they sewed mutilated bodies back together.

But the wounded have all finally been taken care of, and the shelling has stopped. Frank is on duty in Post-Op, and so B.J. and Hawkeye have retreated to the Swamp, and are getting cheerfully obliterated on terrible gin. Somewhere deep down, B.J. knows this is a bad idea, a really bad idea, but he can't seem to help himself. He's so damned tired. Tired of operating on ripped and shattered young men, tired of being shot at, tired of the stink and the dust and the mud. 

And maybe most of all, he's tired of maintaining a careful four-foot distance between himself and Hawkeye, of pretending that they don't matter to each other, of pretending that Hawk isn't all he has to cling to in this godforsaken place.

He can't let down his guard when he's sober, but he's not sober now, and he thinks vaguely that he got drunk on purpose, just so he could lower his walls a little, let himself forget his guilt and his shame and the pretty wife at home who believes wholeheartedly in his loyalty and love.

Not that he's forgotten Peggy. He never can, not entirely. But right now, he's almost painfully aware of Hawkeye, and how very close the other man is. Hawk stumbled out of a shower and back to the Swamp a mere forty-five minutes ago. His dark hair stands up in ridiculous unkempt spikes on his head, and he smells like pine needles and rain and the best goddamned climax B.J. ever had. B.J. wants to move closer, to bury his nose in Hawk's hair, to press his face against his warm throat, to run his hands down the long curve of his spine...

 _Damn_ it.

"Pour me another," he says, holding out his glass, and Hawkeye does.

"To the greatest two surgeons in Korea," Hawk intones, holding up his own martini glass. He's smashed, so _greatest_ comes out _greatisht,_ but B.J.'s just as smashed, and can understand him just fine.

"Helluva day," B.J. says, less than articulately, and drains his own glass. "Helluva day."

"We did great." Hawk grins his ridiculously wide grin. "Issa damn good thing we're here."

B.J. isn't sure he can agree with that. He'd give almost anything not to be here. And yet, as he looks at Hawkeye over the rim of his martini glass, he wonders if that's really true. Because as much as he loathes this place-- as much as he hates the rats and the lice and the shelling and the bodies ripped to hell-- he met Hawkeye here.

And in a sudden flash of clarity through the gin's fog, he knows he wouldn't have missed that for anything.

So on some level, he _is_ glad he's here, in this tent, sitting across from Hawkeye Pierce. He wants to say so, but the gin isn't improving his ability to get ideas across.

"Hawk," he says, hearing the throaty quality of his voice a little too late. "Hawk... it _is_ a good thing. Me... you... I'm _glad._ "

Hawkeye looks at him for a long moment, as if despite B.J.'s clumsy stumbles over the words, he understands everything B.J. is trying to tell him. Everything.

And then he's putting his martini glass down on his footlocker, rising to his feet, and stumbling the four feet to B.J.'s cot. He turns off the light over the cot, casting the Swamp into darkness.

Their arms wrap around each other and they're kissing, just like the two intervening weeks never happened. Just like they never tried to pull away from each other at all.

Hawkeye tastes of gin, of sex, of hunger. His long, lanky body feels too thin under B.J.'s questing hands, all bones and wiry muscle. no hint of fat anywhere. Hawkeye's hands are on him, too, exploring, caressing, and he remembers another night when Hawkeye's hand brought him to whimpering, sobbing ecstasy. The memory makes him shiver.

The sides of the tent are rolled down against the encroaching winter, but they both know Frank Burns could walk in at any moment, and that knowledge lends a certain desperation to their kisses. And yet they don't stop. Hawkeye strips off B.J.'s shirt and then kisses his way down his chest, his mouth hot and wet. And then he drops to his knees in front of B.J., and even through the anesthesizing gin B.J. is shocked.

Hawkeye can't possibly-- no one's ever-- not even Peg-- Hawkeye surely doesn't intend to--

But Hawkeye's hands are on his belt buckle, surprisingly sure and deft, and then he's unzipping B.J.'s pants, and B.J. realizes that yes, Hawk _does_ intend to. He's surprised by the strength of his own reaction, shocked to realize how hard he is, how hot and needy. He aches with wanting.

The first brush of Hawk's lips over his erection make his spine arch like a reed in the wind. Hawk is kissing him, soft, gentle caresses of his lips over swollen flesh that's been denied release for too long, and B.J. wants to wail aloud with the pleasure, but he sets his jaw, grinding his teeth together, and manages to hold the noises back.

But in his head, he's sobbing and begging for more. _Yes, Hawk, yes, oh, God **yes...**_

For a long while, that's all there is to it, careful, delicate kisses that drive B.J. to the edge of madness. And then Hawkeye's lips part, and he's drawing B.J. into his mouth, and it's like nothing B.J.'s ever experienced before. Hawkeye has clearly done this before, and that knowledge ought to disturb him, but right now he's way beyond caring. The heat and the moisture and the feeling of Hawk's lips sliding up and down him... his body shudders helplessly, and he feels his hips moving, driving his erection deep into Hawk's mouth in an unmistakably sexual rhythm. He leans his weight back on his arms, giving himself to Hawkeye as completely as he can.

He's gasping for breath now, hands clenching the sheets of his cot, every muscle taut. Frank could walk in at any moment, but right now he just does... not... _care._ All that matters in the world is Hawkeye's mouth, the sheer sweet pleasure that rolls through B.J. in ever-increasing waves, and the knowledge that this is right, that no matter how hard he tries to fight against his need for Hawk, he can't resist it for long.

Whatever this attraction is between him and Hawkeye-- he can't deny it, or pretend that it doesn't exist. It _is,_ and no amount of ignoring it can make it go away.

He feels his muscles going rigid, his body tensing, and he reaches down and tries to push Hawkeye away, before he... well, before...

But Hawkeye won't stop. His mouth is more relentless than before, moving faster and harder, and B.J. surrenders with a whimper. His fingers dig deep into Hawk's dark hair, and bliss rolls over him and through him. It's so good, better than anything he can ever remember before, as if he's never truly experienced intimacy before this moment. He trembles with the force of it, barely able to hold back his cries of ecstasy.

And when it's over, he's collapsing back on the cot, limp and exhausted, and Hawkeye is next to him. For a few moments they cuddle together, sharing warm, sweet kisses. B.J. can taste himself on Hawkeye, and that ought to repulse him, and yet somehow it just makes these stolen moments that much more intimate. He manages to drag his eyelids open, and despite the darkness, he can see Hawkeye looking at him, his eyes bright and almost happy.

He sees so much in Hawk's eyes. So damn much.

He wishes he could stay here, wrapped in Hawk's embrace, all night, but they both know that's impossible. After far too short a time, Hawk kisses him once more, gets up, and staggers to his own cot. There's the sound of his long, lean body stretching out, the faint creak of the cot under his weight.

"Night, Beej," he says, just as he always does. There's a faint hint of mischief in his voice as he adds, "Sweet dreams."

B.J.'s brain is drugged with exhaustion and pleasure and gin, but he manages to answer. "Good night, Hawk."

And it is, he thinks blearily. Despite everything, despite all the torn-up boys he operated on today, all the shelling, all the horror that attends a day in Korea... it's a good night. His eyes drift closed, and almost instantly, sleep settles on him like a warm, soft blanket. 

And much to his surprise, his dreams _are_ sweet.

-The End-

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally two stories, "In Your Eyes" and "Sweet Dreams," both written in September 2009. "In Your Eyes" was so short that I decided to combine them, and did a good deal of editing besides. This is where the series originally ended, but I'm not happy with that for two reasons: 1. The sex occurred while they were drunk, and as a result I'm sure that both of them will wake up wracked with guilt tomorrow, and 2. Hawkeye still hasn't gotten any. This is an oversight that must be remedied. So I am planning at least one more story. The next (and possibly final) story will be called "I'm a Fool to Want You."


End file.
